Sure, I can breathe fire. It’s surprising how seldom that comes in handy when you have to change into a two ton dragon to do it. Melt a couple of your were-kin’s barbecues and you don’t get invited back much. It makes for a lot of awkward questions in the neighbourhood, and crackpot journalists hanging around looking for monsters.
The were-pups get all the attention, of course, and they complain a lot, but they bring it on themselves, really, with all that baying they do when the moon is full. They could learn something about secrecy from wyrms. They never do, though.
“Wyrm und Drang”
About the story: Sometimes the title comes first. So what is drang, in an SFF sense?